dachshund lives matter

I thought it might be a good idea to inform you, my adoring public, that I have been undergoing some health issues lately, which have kept me away from the blog.

I have been experiencing problems with my back, which (according to Dr. Todd) may or may not be indicative of a more serious problem which may or may not require surgical intervention, and/or may or may not result in the loss of use in my haunch region. Honestly, Dr. Todd is just FONT of helpful and specific information.

Basically, what happened was this: I tried to alert Mama Dog that I was ready to go out for my morning constitution before breakfast. As I was gesticulating (because she is quite deaf to my cries of hunger in the morning, it seems) I wrenched a tender spot in my back, causing pain and temporary spasm in the muscular tissue of my lower half. She completely freaked out, called the vet and took away all things good and fun in my life.

I was immediately put to bed and given medicinal cheese. That part isn’t so terrible. She rubbed some smelly essential oils on my feet and my back. I would never tell her this, but the oils and the massage helped with the pain … but the smell was still very weird. Bachmann mentioned the odor repeatedly. Every time I had to go outside to conduct *business* – she or Daddy Dog carried me. And watched me. Rude. And this turned out not to be some ‘one day only’ type of thing …

It’s been a few weeks and I’m still not allowed to do anything I like to do. No jumping on the furniture — even when the sun is beaming in on the couch and I’m in desperate need of recharging. No going out on the back porch … unless someone carries me. No working with my Companions unless being closely supervised (ie. watched like a hawk)by Mama Dog, Daddy Dog, or one of the Children. It’s so limiting.

I continue to get the medicinal cheese, which is good, though very small in dosage. And they continue to apply the stinky oils to my feet daily, which Bachmann continues to complain about. And apparently, I’m not a *cooperative* little dog, because now, they have started blocking my access to furniture completely with what they refer to as “baby rails.” Honestly, I jumped onto my favorite perch the other morning and you would have thought I sprouted horns and a forked tail … Mama and Daddy Dog raced into the family room and removed me from my spot, scolded me and next thing I know – BAM! – blockades on all the furniture.

They never leave me alone now, either. I mean, I am supervised all the time. If someone has to leave the house, they make sure someone is left at home to monitor my activity. (Which is part of the reason I’ve been offline so long … how am I supposed to get any quality work done with people watching me all the time?!) If Mama and Daddy Dog both have to go out, they leave Big Kid home. He’s not so bad, I guess … I can usually get him to lift me onto the couch where he sits watching television or playing one of his ‘games’. Still, I miss my privacy a great deal.

I’ve been told I am a good dog. I’ve been told I’m so sweet and precious and that everyone loves me. But I’ll be honest … it feels very much like they want Georgie to suffer from boredom and lack of activity. I smell Dr. Todd’s quackery all over this. Especially since this whole *treatment* thing has also started to involve fewer treats, reduced food portions and an overall *weight loss protocol* that is supposed to reduce the stress on my spine. Uh huh … Dr. Todd and his hatred of the Irish-Viking Dachshund continues …

Now … Mama Dog claims this is a temporary situation. She says I am going to be traveling to the university veterinary college where I will undergo an evaluation by a neurologist, and possibly a CT scan and second examination by an orthopedic surgeon. She says this will lead to me being able to resume my normal activities. She says a lot of stuff while she’s barricading me from my favorite places to climb and blocking me from the back porch steps and carting me in and out of the house to go pee, which is just humiliating. Most of what she says is “for my own good,” and I’m getting pretty tired of hearing that crap. All this ‘for my own good’ business is leaving me … disgruntled.

So. There you have it. The sad tale of my existence these days. Confined to ground level, monitored every minute and prohibited from fun and excitement. The only thing I have going for me these days is that I get to ‘sleep out’ at night and am no longer confined in my crate. But the couch is still off limits and they always leave the remotes for the TV up there so I can’t even watch my favorite programs after everyone else has gone to bed. Plus, Mama Dog always puts this stinky stuff in her essential oil diffuser at night that she says will help me relax and rest during the night. All I’ve been doing lately is rest and relax! But it does serve as a nightlight and I can see to supervise some of my Companions if I’m quiet and remember to put everyone and everything back exactly as it was before Mama Dog gets up in the morning. And if I remember to act really tired and weak when she comes into the family room. That sure makes her agreeable, when she thinks I’m all stiff and sore from my ‘condition’. Ha ha ha. Georgie still has a few tricks up her sleeve!

I will try to keep you posted, gentle readers, on my progress with physical therapy, medication and the like. I believe Mama Dog has been keeping her readers updated on my condition on her social media account, but I wouldn’t know, as, again, I am locked out of most of my technology because it requires more physicality that I’m allowed at this time. But I would greatly appreciate your thoughts and good wishes. And, as always, I thank you for your support.

Friends, you simply cannot imagine how harrowing and difficult the past few weeks have been for me. And so I will tell you, in great detail.

I was born in the Gulag, to a poor peasant dachshund. In spite of my humble – impoverished, even – circumstances, I overcame my indigence to become the successful entrepreneur and dachshund rights activist that I am today. But it wasn’t easy. There were many obstacles and hurdles placed in my way, by those who resented my ambition and even those who claimed to love me.

Eight years ago, I was adopted by Daddy and Mama Dog. They brought me to live with them in their run down shack in the middle of nowhere. While my new surroundings were only slightly better than the gulag, I was at least part of a loving, caring family … or so I believed.

The entrance to our hovel is impeded by a fragmented pile of ruptured concrete, which my family refers to as “a porch.” Daddy Dog has staunchly refused to repair this death trap – he believes, apparently, that it will serve as a deterrent to unwanted salesmen and wheeled robots. Over the years there have been numerous injuries stemming from this dangerous assemblage of mutilated rock. Mama Dog fell once and her injuries almost resulted in the amputation of both legs. And still, Daddy Dog did nothing. Negligence is what I call it, but … whatever.

Which brings me to my current condition …

A few weeks ago, I was outside, doing my dog chores. I had checked in (verbally) with all the “damn gophers,” and conducted a thorough physical examination of all their communications portals. As it was a sunny day, I spent a little extra time recharging my haunches and enjoying the warmth of a particularly potent sunbeam. It was quite restorative and lovely. Because it had been almost a week since my last mandatory ablution, I had built up a substantial musky veil and I was exquisitely pungent. I felt powerful and robust. Invincible. My fey instincts should have warned me that menace lurked in the shadows … but they must have been dampened by the days’ solar emanation. Or maybe I was just sleepy. In any event, I was unsuspecting of the impending calamity.

Later that evening, I prepared for my nighttime retirement. I had taken a fairly substantial pre-bedtime nap and was looking forward to settling in with my cookie and the new issue of “Noveau Viking Cuisine.” The Big Kid began his silliness … dragging me out of The Family Bed and trying to sweet-talk me into going out into the dark, frigid night for one last constitution of the day. I went, against my better judgment. I did my business – we don’t need to go into detail about that. I announced my readiness to come back into the house. The Big Kid ignored me. I cried out again – it was cold and I was quickly losing core temperature. Finally, he came slowly out to free me from my shackles. I sprinted toward the door. I leaped onto “the porch,” and suddenly … I felt a wrenching, agonizing, excruciating pain in my foot. My rear passenger-side foot had become wedged in one of the deep chasms riddling the mass of debris. I let out a wail of distress. The Big Kid was unsympathetic – he insisted I quit lollygagging and get in the house. I cried out, trying to communicate my pain to him, but he was impatient and unmoved. Finally, in a final attempt to gain his attention, I barked out one last groaning bellow. He belatedly knelt to see what was troubling me and discovered my predicament.

Gentle readers, the pain from this incident was beyond unbearable. Panic began to set in as the Big Kid clumsily tried to free me from my bondage. He wiggled and yanked and tore at my limb until I thought I was going to black out from the torment. At last, he called for Daddy and Mama Dog, who came slowly, grumbling about my inconvenience and inconsiderate temperament. When they realized that I was injured, they instantly became solicitous – no doubt in an attempt to avoid litigation.

Daddy Dog was able to wrench my foot loose and I was free to move. Unsurprisingly, no one offered me medical attention, nor did they offer to carry me to bed. They immediately went back to their television program, leaving me to limp painfully to my cold, solitary room where one tiny cookie waited.

I passed the night in terrible discomfort, alone, unloved and betrayed by the family who was supposed to be my support system. I was distressed to say the least.

The next morning, after Bachmann witnessed me limping into my office in the Family Bed, he suggested that we might be able to seek legal justice for my suffering. I gave him a small retainer and told him to get to work on a case.

Now, Bachmann isn’t really a very good lawyer, but he does work cheap. Even so, he was able to determine that because my family doesn’t actually own the shanty where we live, I cannot sue them to recover medical expenses, nor can I seek punitive damages for my pain and suffering from them directly. However, Bachmann also determined that I can seek legal recourse from the landowners … which, as luck would have it, include Tootsie Wootsie – my human grandparents’ chubby, yippy, silly, insufferable faux-dachshund. Well, isn’t that just a big basket of day old toast? Ha, ha, ha.

Unfortunately, while he works cheap, Bachmann is terribly undependable. And just as we were beginning to build a strong case against Tootsie, he absconded with my retainer and fled to the hinterlands of the Little Nokasippi wilderness to pan for gold with his childhood friend, Arlo. I haven’t heard from him in days.

Left in the lurch, so to speak, I was unsure how to proceed until Hobart the Holiday Hedgehog came to see me two days ago with an interesting proposal. Apparently, he has spent quite a bit of time clerking for Bachmann and felt that he could handle my case on his own. He had put together some notes on a plan of attack, and after looking them over, I felt confident that he could do at least as good a job as that no account beaver. I hired him on the spot.

Hobart enlisted Ernst to clerk for him and to be assistant counsel. While his verbal communication skills are lacking in almost every way, Ernst actually has quite a keen legal mind. Hobart set him to work researching case law and precedent. And after I provided him with a wide-button keyboard, Ernst was able to write several briefs and file multiple motions against Tootsie, who has evidently decided to represent herself in court.

This morning, during our consult, Hobart informed me that he has secured Judge Molly Mae – a very wise, fair-minded half breed who lives in the neighborhood – to oversee the court proceedings. And he also mentioned that he’s hired Raoul the Raccoon as an investigator, to see what other dirt (besides being a slum lord) he can dig up on Tootsie.

I am trying to heal, both physically and emotionally. The pain, though … the deep, deep pain is with me all the time. Some of my Companions have sent cards and notes of well wishing, though I suspect they are secretly happy to have a hiatus in their training regimens. I have consumed many cups of bone broth, prepared for me lovingly by my Mama Dog, who saw the error of her callous treatment and is now working hard to make amends. Daddy Dog has still not fixed the gaping maw in the “porch” and I am forced to try and maneuver around the mocking fissure every time I have to go number 1 or number 2. I am considering naming him as an accessory in my lawsuit, especially after a humiliating incident this morning.

I was deeply cold and tired and Daddy Dog’s fat haunch had taken up the entire seat of the comfy couch that was in a strong sunbeam. I needed the restorative power of that sunbeam to help me heal on a cellular level, which he well knew. But not only would he not move over and make room for me, he would not reach down and offer me any assistance, instead choosing to make me attempt a dangerous jump that very well could have exacerbated my injury. And when I was unable to make the jump from floor to furniture … he laughed at me. Cruelly. Fuckler. So. We’ll see if he’s laughing so hard when I slap him with a subpoena and name him as a co-defendant in this suit. Won’t we?

This is a photo of the crevasse that almost claimed my limb and very possibly my life. Notice the dark, evil vortex shafting down into who-knows-where. Can’t you feel the malevolence oozing from it’s depths? I certainly can.

Here is a close up … (Warning: This photo is not suitable for children) It’s TERRIFYING, isn’t it??

I will keep you posted, dear readers, on the status of my legal struggle, as well as my journey back to health. I know the road will be long and arduous and I do ask for your thoughts and well wishes. Donations to my legal fund can be sent in care of this blog to: Justice for Georgie, PO Box 123, Family Bed, postal code 56789. I look forward to speaking to you again from a stronger and more vigorous status. And as always, I thank you for your support.